January, 2016 - I have, in the last year-and-a-half, developed a kind of Travel Trinity for my journeys. I predicted before leaving the USA, and have since confirmed repeatedly, the three things that can make my travels worthwhile: The scenery, the food, and the people.

(And the kittens, too, of course)

The ever-changing balance of these specific factors are what appeals to, attracts, satisfies, or enthuses me as I make my way around the planet. Examples might be the inspiringly serene majesty of a virgin mountain slope, or the unexpected hilarity of a right mess made while two people communicate without a common language. It might be the ridiculously delicious experience of trying ricotta and pancetta tortelloni drizzled in panna and sweet balsamic, or the awe of finally learning exactly how unrealistically blue the ocean is in the middle of a transatlantic sail. It might be meeting someone for the first time and feeling like you’ve simply re-discovered a pre-existing friendship rather than created a new one, or savoring the decadence and delight of fresh, smooth, honest-to-goodness Italian gelato with my love on a Roman road at dusk, the pavement alight in amber-colored street lamps magic magic happen in the setting sun. It’s almost always one or more of this Trinity of Travel that makes the trip for me.

When I arrived in and navigated my way through Uruguay, I came to find that, for me, this country, although possessing beauty, is a place where the friendships and the food would be my most valuable personal take-aways. For that reason, my camera stayed away, with few exceptions. I had a little photoshoot with a baby, and then a cat, followed by a love affair for Chevito, but beyond that I was less a photographer than usual, and you’ll see a couple of Daniel’s shots supplemented to fill in some graphic blanks.

Before we talk folks and foodstuffs, I’ll first describe how my entry to Uruguay included one of the most unpleasant border crossings to date. By no fault of the Brazilians or Uruguayans, mind you, but more due to my own reliably stubborn stinginess. Allow me (about ten minutes) to explain…

​Let the record first show that a monetary splurge could have booked me a streamlined transit experience, complete with fully-administered immigrations, likely a meal, and no necessary transfers. Let the record also show that when “Tommy Tightwad” enters the picture (as Daniel has referred to me), things usually get more difficult before they get more expensive.

The cheapest route I managed to map from Point A (Sao Paulo) to Point B (Montevideo) was via a semi-scattered network of independent bus lines dotted between the two cities. As with any cross-country commute in Brazil, the collection of bus rides was a marathon of stops and lasted for most of the day. Fortunately, it is a gorgeous and captivating country in which to be trapped in a travel vessel. Unfortunately, this route I planned landed me in the border town of Santana do Livramento at a very inconvenient 1AM, where the immigration office ten blocks away would not open for another seven hours.

My frugal planning methods would have me spending yet another night in a starkly lit, outdoor bus stop on a hard bench in the middle of an unfamiliar town.

Note: While it may pleasantly tickle my financial funny bone, this is NOT one of my favorite things in life.

Boredom aside, an unstable, filthy man talking and stalking the station in the middle of the night did little to relax me. The man would trudge about and incessantly murmur to himself, at times his volume lifting to a hair-raising level as he would nearly shout at no one or thing that I could perceive.

In an effort to feel safe, I fed and befriended a nearby stray dog, hoping I might gain loyalty and thereby protection, in the event the lone man somehow determined me to be worthy of his unwanted attention…

​At one point, the man (who’s mind, I decided, appeared quite indisputably unsettled and irrational) then mumbled and grumbled and waddled his way over to me, forgoing many meters of free space to the left and right of my spot on the wooden bench, plopping himself directly next to me. My canine bodyguard lost her sense of fealty and left, leaving me feeling quite a bit less protected. I tensed, the undesirable, eerie new intimacy with the man’s angry-sounding tirade continuing, me on the edge of my seat and nerves, not looking directly at but still focusing whatever cognizance I could spare on the frightening individual now sitting immediately beside me in the dark, abandoned bus station.

​Without warning, he suddenly released an shrill shriek, screeching an unintelligible cry that caused me to startle, jump, and maybe even stopped my heart for a moment. I can neither confirm nor deny whether I may or may not have peed just a little…

After his shout ended, he stood and walked away, leaving me shaken, fresh sweat stinging as it sprout from my skin, and still on my guard while he re-positioned himself on a nearby curb. He didn’t completely wander off for another two or three hours, most of which I spent earning cramps and bum sores while holding obsessively still on the stiff bench, backpacks clenched tight in a white-knuckle grip.

Needless to say, there was no rest that night.

By the time 6 o’clock rolled around, Daniel grew restless, and he sauntered off across town to the immigration office, leading him through no few number of strange, dodgy alleys. When he finally returned a while later, he reported that the immigration office was still closed, but the police station across the street (stashed inside an unassuming, house-like office acting in lieu of) had never closed. We had waited all night when we could have made a move right off the bus. Dangit.

After earning our respective exit stamps from Brazil’s officers on duty, we learned that Uruguay’s immigration office was another hike away on the other side of the border.

These towns of Santana do Livramento in Brazil and Rivera in Uruguay share an unmonitored boundary. Sure, I could have waltzed across, spared myself the sleepless night with Mr. Maniac, and no one would have stopped me. But I am not only a stinge, but also a sometimes stickler.

So we walked. It was about a mile or two, with a 35lb bag and probably some convenience store provisions in a limp, plastic sack to keep bellies appeased until the next real meal (which can often be quite infrequent).

Entry stamp into Uruguay was eventually granted, and upon my request we were pointed in the direction of the next bus stop that would take us to the capital, Montevideo. Surprise! It was back the OTHER way towards Brazil.

I feel like my calves and quads should be monstrously huge by now. Alas, all the walking and burden bearing has done little for my leg’s thickness (and NOTHING for my glutes…. Grrrr…).

Once we arrived in Montevideo, we had officially completely our longest intercity commute to date: From Point A to Point B in 42 hours. It was high time to put our bags down and drop.

I am so blessed, so often, by Daniel and his marvelous ability to meet new friends and nurture their relationship. He is so considerate, very charming, and so noticeably low-maintenance that he sometimes has buddies positively begging to have him visit.

One such amiga is Julieta. His introduction to this lovely lady is still one of his favorite stories of the wonderful hospitality and warm openness attributed to South American cultures (and Couchsurfers in general).

In 2011, when Daniel was first Couchsurfing through Montevideo, he was staying with Nati (whom I would also see while in the city). Nati was accustomed to Couchsurfing, but her at-the-time roommate, Julieta, did not have the same familiarity with inviting in and sharing your home with true strangers. Nonetheless, Daniel was sleeping on their couch when Julieta arrived home from work around 3AM. Although they had not met, Julieta took Daniel’s presence in stride, strolling up to him and initiating the standard two-cheeks kiss that you come to expect south of the American equator. She gave him her name, and her his. And that was that.

This time around, Julieta once again demonstrated the kind of high-caliber generosity that is the stuff of stories. Her home she shares now with the sweet-natured, loving Osvaldo together with their exceptionally adorable 10-month-old daughter, Paula.

The last furry little member of their troop was their surly, half-feral fuzzball-with-a-bowtie, Pepo the cat. It was in this happy little family’s world that I began to explore Uruguay through a local’s eyes, and initiated the standard interview the project on whose behalf I travel. I asked about Paula’s probable future, her parent’s dreams, and what she might come to expect from life in South America. As has become standard, talking about the life and world of a child, in the context of human existence as a whole, was one of the best parts of the visit.

I also learned that Uruguayans are stereotypically extremely laid back. Granted, my time was short and not quite everyone fit the bill, but I found that to be majorly accurate. When problems and emergencies arise, the tensions that would normally arise in other places just never developed here. They are quite unfazed by the stressors what would light a fire under more anger-prone peoples. On one hand, it made for an almost languid atmosphere as I walked the city. On the other, there were times I would have preferred a bit more urgency (in restaurants or service counters). Nonetheless, everything carries on there in their form and function. Who am I to suggest change in a culture that isn’t my own?

While the tranquil town folk went about their not-so-busy business, I was able to see a little of what makes Montevideo the place it is. Being on the coast, there are shipyard-themed communities (with restaurants and cafes hidden inside gigantic, converted boats, featuring the famous Uruguayan grilled meats stacked on simmering, sizzling forge-like ovens), and walks up and down the concrete jetty lined with local fisherman with their lines bobbing in the water with a casually blaze demeanor not unlike their owners. All in all, the citizens were more memorable than the city, which is only a tribute to the powerfully pleasant people who live there.

My FAVORITE moment while exploring, and the reason Food is one of the strongest segments of the Trinity of Travel here, is the Uruguay national dish, chevito. Oh. My. Goodness… How did I go so long before combining the supremely savory and terribly tasty powers of French fries, bacon, steak, fried egg, avocado, lettuce, tomato, and cheese? Oh, chevito, where have you been and why have you left me again?????? It so, SO STUPID GOOD.

I have toyed with the idea that, after returning to the states and recombobulating with everyday life, I might start a food blog where I cook my way through all the countries I have visited. I think it’s safe to say that chevito might need to be made and re-made a few times over before I’m through with it.

Before leaving Julieta’s homey house, Daniel met again with his previous hostess and friend, Nati. This spontaneous, fun-loving world-wanderer was an energetic bundle with whom it was a pleasure to spend the afternoon. We explored museums, galleries, zen gardens, made special pizza and juice, chit-chatted with her roommates Bassett hound pup (and played with a neighbor’s wee puppy (complete with a satin bow tied around her chubby, little neck)), and also orchestrated a video job interview for her.

All this took place within a neighborhood in which I don’t know if I could ever live, for reasons that you might or might not agree.

​I first took notice about twenty minutes before arriving at Nati’s house outside of downtown. A smell in the air. While it is common to repeatedly catch a whiff of sewage or a blast of exhaust while in a city, it is rather more rare to sniff something savory or sweet for such extended periods of time. The aroma that dominated this part of town was the deliciously mouth-watering scent of fresh-baked goods. Bread, doughnuts, cakes, rolls… Block after block, the smell permeated mercilessly, teasing my tummy with is phantasmal presence. It just wouldn’t go away!!! I was suddenly and continually hungry, even though in reality I didn’t need to eat. That essence of bakery kept my stomach growling.

Nati explained there is a large bread factory a few miles away whose chimneys almost endlessly pump the ovens’ aromatic contents into the air, bathing the surrounding area with its scrumptious scent. It was awful, in the most pleasantly torturous way, until I again escaped back to Julieta’s cozy, comfy abode.

The night before we exited for Argentina, we stayed with different friends, these one’s newly made. ​

Dario and Matias would soon transfer to Sao Paulo in the north, but until then we were able to spend a couple days with them. They were so gracious with their time, so informative and gently kind. Such goodly guys and easy-going, Daniel really knows how to pick ‘em! It was natural to feel at ease in their presence.

In their company, we walked the waterfront and sipped mate by the beach, watching the volleyballers throw themselves about while the local kids frolicked in the surf and sand. Ice cream is advertised EVERYWHERE, and we treated ourselves to a local delicacy of alfajores stuffed with the stuff. We meandered the parks and critiqued the public photo exhibitions. Dario and Mati knew some of the best locations for community and street art, including a contemporary gallery with international futuristic works all residing within what was once a prison. Government landmarks weren’t left out, as we passed by the spacious buildings that housed those who run the country. One night, we even chased a local drumming dance party/parade that takes place periodically where the young folk go to cut loose and get a little crazy, then headed back home to watch a few SNL reruns from the US elections before they got so insane.

They took us to a renowned street market that was honestly one of the most comprehensive, outdoor shopping experiences of my life. Antiques, fast food, books, lingerie, doorknobs, pet birds, plants of all kinds, cooking supplies, socks, video games, furniture, childcare equipment, milk and other farming goods, hair products, air conditioners, tee-shirts, electronic adapters, music (both instruments and recorded media), paint, lawn care, spare batteries…

Photo credits: Daniel Heintz

The list goes on and on as the market seemed to stretch into forever, every street’s intersection leading to new items in an almost ever-expanding variety. ​​

Photo credit: Daniel Heintz

To top it all off, the boys guided us to a popular square downtown that we had passed numerous times of the course of several days. On Saturday nights, however, the courtyard is converted into an outdoor, ballroom-under-the-stars where you can publicly tango into the evening. The dancers are mostly elderly men and woman who have probably been coming to the same square for decades. As the tango music plays on through the streets, an intricate and ingrained system of courtesy and courtship carries on between dancers. Rules and guidelines about when to dance with your main partner and when to switch seem to come as basically to the seniors as the obviously intuitive movement of their feet and they cross legs and dip and turn. It was like something out of a movie.

Saying goodbye is always undesirable, but unavoidable. As I bid adios and headed towards Buenos Aires, we traveled to the small village of Colonia, where a ferry would deliver us to Argentina. The town is a well-preserved community of old-style buildings and winding lanes, really quite European-like. Cobblestoned and quaint, where the ocean glitters at the end of the tiny streets and adorable cafes are sprinkled here and there as you take in the setting sun and beauty amidst blooming vines and flowering trees. Rusted automobiles from the twenties and thirties still sit abandoned adjacent to ruined buildings smothered in green ivy whose invasive limbs reach into the vacant, broken windows. It was an enchanting place.

Sadly, I was in a foul mood as I walked around. I cannot even recall what it was about, but I remember feeling emotionally injured, distant, uninspired, and a little vengeful. I couldn’t tell you why. It’s quite lamentable, looking back. Colonia was a gorgeous and idyllic place. I lament not having appreciated it better. But Daniel, unfailingly loyal as usual, tolerated my silent tantrum until I thawed out as we boarded the ferry, took to the sea, put “Evita” on the laptop for cultural preparation, and watched the sparkly skyline of Buenos Aires rise out of the late night horizon.

Daniel mentioned that the end of this entry concludes with sentiments containing an unapprovable degree of darkness (both emotionally and meteorologically) and asked me to instead end things on a more cheerful note, and so I will honor his optimistic request with one word, which carries within it all the happiness I need to make my day: Chevito.